by Liana Liu
There I am, ecstatically hugging a package wrapped in silver paper. The memory beckons, but immediately I grit my teeth, straighten my shoulders, and I manage to send it away. I’m happy to discover I can still control my malfunctioning key. Sometimes. Somewhat.
I turn to the next page. There’s my mom and dad in matching red sweaters, arms around each other. There’s my mom and aunt standing proudly behind a table that’s nearly buckling under all the food atop it. In both pictures my mother looks happy. She must have been happy.
But it’s the next album that’s the most interesting to me; this one contains the oldest photographs. First, several black-and-white shots of my grandparents looking very young and very serious in their formal clothes. Then two little girls smiling for the camera. I recognize my mom by the twist of her mouth and my aunt by the tilt of her chin. There are many more of the sisters, and in one of them they sit with an elderly man. My great-grandfather, I guess, my mother’s beloved grandfather. He stares solemnly at me, as if unaware of the girls grinning on either side of him.
I study my great-grandfather’s face, the thinning hair, the sagging skin, the stern line of his mouth. I wonder if he already had Vergets when this photo was taken, whether his memories had already lost their sharp edges. But his gaze seems alert.
Still, I feel sad.
A blaring noise startles me out of my thoughts. I quickly close the album, imagining that Aunt Austin has come back to find me snooping. But it’s only my cell phone ringing, echoing loudly in the white stillness of the apartment. I follow the sound to my backpack, and check the caller ID before answering.
It’s Wendy.
Leaving my phone on the table, I go into the bathroom and smooth my aunt’s scented lotion on my hands. I smell my palms, they smell like roses. As I close the medicine cabinet, I notice the tube of prescription painkillers perched in the corner, and stop closing. The pills are the same kind the doctor gave my dad when he threw out his back shoveling snow two winters ago.
I pluck the bottle from the shelf, thinking of my recent headaches.
I blink. I’m still standing in the bathroom, in front of the medicine cabinet, but now the room is sweetly fragrant: I am nine years old and while reaching for my aunt’s scented lotion, I’ve knocked over a bottle of perfume, and now the bottle is in pieces and the perfume is a puddle and the air is thickening with smell, smothering smell, too sweet, too fragrant, and I can’t breathe, and I turn around, and there is Aunt Austin, standing in the doorway. She looks at me. She looks at the broken glass. She does not say anything; she doesn’t have to.
I blink. I put the tube of prescription painkillers back on the shelf, setting it precisely in place.
Then I return to the living room. My cell phone is still ringing and I cannot believe it. Won’t Wendy take a hint? No, of course not. Wendy has never taken a hint. She is constitutionally unable to take a hint.
I’m about to shove my phone under a pillow when I see it’s not Wendy calling this time. It’s Raul. He tells me he’s leaving work so I give him directions to my aunt’s building.
After I hang up, I pace around the room, thinking about what happened with Wendy and Tim, and I start getting angry again. Then I start getting sad. Wendy is my best friend. And Tim, despite the stupid whatever between us, is also my friend.
Yet I don’t see how either relationship can be salvaged. There’s too much hurt, too much history.
Wendy’s voice in my head says: Just fix your memory key, stupid.
It’s not that easy, is my pretend retort to pretend Wendy.
I stop pacing. I sit on the couch and open up the photo album again. Past the pictures of my great-grandfather, I find the pictures from my aunt’s wedding. They’re surprising to me, though I’m not sure why. They could be any old wedding portraits.
Perhaps that’s why they’re surprising, the ordinariness of them, just two people in love. My aunt looks much now as she did then: tall and thin and determined. She wears an ivory dress with oddly ruffled sleeves. In her hands is a small bouquet. The mysterious Jon Harmon stands next to her. He is also tall and thin, with black hair and glasses. He doesn’t actually look very mysterious. In fact, he seems kind of nerdy with his thick glasses and tweed suit and wide-collared shirt.
The intercom buzzes. It’s the uniformed man downstairs, calling to tell me that Raul is here. As I go unlock the properly locked door, it occurs to me that Aunt Austin would probably not approve of the fact I’m having a boy over without a chaperone. I hope the doorman doesn’t tell on me.
Raul comes in with his blue jacket slung over his shoulder, and it reminds me of the fact I was escorted off the premises of Grand Gardens today, and I wonder if Raul knows, but he smiles at me so nicely that I decide he doesn’t know. “Fancy apartment,” he says.
“Yeah, my aunt’s a fancy person. How was work?”
“Endless.” He half sighs, half yawns.
We go into the living room and stretch out on opposite ends of the couch. The cream-colored sofa is so long that only our feet overlap. Raul nudges my heel with his socked toe. “That tickles,” I say, gently kicking him away.
“Sorry.”
“No, it’s okay.”
“Okay.”
“Want to watch TV?” I turn on the television and skip through the channels until I find a documentary about tree frogs, which seems close enough to marine biology that I suppose Raul will be interested.
But when I glance over at him he’s asleep. He looks like a little boy with his eyes shut and brow furrowed, with his mouth curled into a slight frown. A minute later, he begins to snore, and I giggle, hand over mouth to cover the sound.
I’m glad he’s here. Raul is nice. He’s cute and smart. He seems to really like me. And I like him back, don’t I? I do. I must.
A lion roars, startlingly loud, on the television. The tree frogs have gone to commercial, and this commercial is advertising a show about noisy lions. I grab the remote to turn down the volume, but I’m too late.
“What? What is it?” Raul jerks awake. “Did I fall asleep? I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay, it’s my fault. I bored you to sleep.”
“No, it’s not, I mean, you didn’t. I’m sorry.” He is blushing.
“It’s okay, really.” I feel bad for teasing him.
“Okay,” he says uncertainly.
“Hey, do you want to see some pictures?” I smile at him.
“Sure.” He smiles back.
I turn off the television and show him the photographs in the family album: little me, my father, my mother, my aunt. I point out my gap-toothed smile. Raul makes the appropriate comments about what a cute kid I was.
Then he abruptly stands.
“Is something wrong?” I ask as he strides across the room to where he left his blue jacket. I look away. I hate the sight of that jacket.
He returns and hands me an envelope. “I forgot. This is for you.”
My name is written in shaky script on the front. I flip it over and unseal the flap. Inside are two folded papers. The first is a sheet of stationery with a message written in that same shaky script. It reads:
Dear Lora,
I’m writing to properly thank you for helping me away from that car. The disregard people have for traffic laws is truly appalling. Thankfully there are Good Samaritans like you, keeping the world safe for the rest of us. I was very glad to see you at Grand Gardens today.
Pertaining to our intriguing discussion about medical technology, I’ve enclosed some information that may be of interest to you.
Yours truly,
Ms. Pearl
The other item in the envelope is a leaflet with black type on green paper. At the very top, in large letters, are the words KEEP CORP OUT. Raul asks what it is, so I read aloud: “The KCO is an organization dedicated to spreading awareness about the memory key industry. Did you know Keep Corp has successfully blocked other companies from producing memory keys even though their patents should
have expired decades ago? Did you know Keep Corp’s overseas factories employ children under fourteen? Did you know the government has stopped funding efforts to find a cure for Vergets disease?
“We at the KCO are deeply concerned about the increasing power Keep Corp has over our government, and our lives. You should be too. For more information or to find out how you can help, please contact us at . . .”
I drop the sheet of paper on the floor. “Ridiculous,” I say.
Raul gazes at the leaflet and I can tell he wants to pick it up. “There was that scandal about twelve-year-old kids working at one of their factories,” he says. “But then they shut the place down and said they hadn’t known.”
“My mom would never have worked for Keep Corp if those things were true.” I speak with certainty. But I am not as certain as I sound. How can it be that the more I learn of her, the more I remember of her, the less certain I feel?
All I want is some peace and quiet, says my mother.
“Your mom worked for Keep Corp?” asks Raul.
“She did,” I say, gritting my teeth.
“But she doesn’t anymore?”
“Do you think those things are true?” I ask.
“I don’t know enough about it,” he says.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” I say, getting up to go.
I move slowly around the white-tiled room, phrases from the KCO flyer stuck in my mind, stuck like a song. Stopped funding . . . Vergets disease . . . Children under fourteen . . . Increasing power . . . I shake my head, trying to shake out the words, and concentrate on what I’m doing: soaping my hands, rinsing them, opening the medicine cabinet to get out my aunt’s rose-scented lotion.
On the shelf is the tube of prescription painkillers, and despite my intention of taking out the lotion, I take out the painkillers. The top comes off with a pop. I slide a single tablet into my hand. The top goes on with a thump.
I stare at the tablet on my palm. I know I shouldn’t take it. Not with Raul waiting for me, not after I’ve already ingested so many drugstore pain pills today. I reach for the bottle again, to put the tablet back. But then I decide that my aunt can’t mind if I borrow just one little pill, in case of emergency. So I wrap my one little pill in a tissue to take with me.
In the living room, the KCO leaflet is on the floor where I left it, and Raul is flipping through another one of the photo albums. I pluck the leaflet from the rug, fold it up, slip it back into the envelope with Ms. Pearl’s note, and shove it into my bag. The single prescription tablet gets tucked in there, too.
“I recognize some of these people,” says Raul.
I zip my backpack closed and go to look at what he’s looking at. It’s the book I skipped, the one of my aunt with various strangers in various kinds of business and formal attire. I explain to Raul that my aunt is a congresswoman. He seems impressed. He points and asks, “Is that her with the vice president?”
But my gaze has drifted to a different photo. “Dad,” I say.
“What?” Raul tries to turn the page, but I’m holding it down, heavy-handed.
“That’s my dad,” I say, my voice utterly toneless.
In the picture, my father’s hair is thicker and less gray than it is now, and he’s also thinner. He sits at a table cluttered with wineglasses and small plates, smiling the same slightly stiff smile he wears in all posed photographs. However, even as I notice these details, my attention is not on the familiar figure of my father but on the figures seated next to him.
The two blue-jacketed strangers.
18.
RAUL DRIVES ME HOME AND ALL THE WAY THERE I’M THINKING that I don’t know how I’m going to face my father, but when we pull up in front of the house the windows are dark and the driveway is empty, and I cannot believe that after all my dreading he is not even there.
“Don’t you think so?” asks Raul.
“I guess so,” I say. I have no idea what he’s talking about.
“Finally! Someone agrees with me!”
“Um, yeah.”
Raul smiles his nice smile. Then I let him kiss me. His lips are gentle. He touches my waist, and his hands are gentle too. I try to forget myself as I kiss him back, but I can’t. I can’t forget anything.
And I’m tired of this, of him, of everything. I’m so tired. I lean away from his mouth and out of his arms. I thank him for the ride.
“Let’s hang out soon?” he says.
I say yes because yes is easier to say. And I am so, so tired.
Inside the house, there’s a note on the kitchen counter, the usual note-leaving-place. Lora, there’s a work dinner tonight. Sorry for the late notice. There are leftovers in the fridge, but here’s some money if you want to order in.
Under the page is a twenty-dollar bill. I leave the cash and replace the note on top of it. I check the messages on our answering machine. There’s only one, and it’s Keep Corp demanding I come in for a checkup. “We’re registering increased levels of damage from your memory key,” scolds the technician. I tap the delete button.
Then I take the incriminating photo out of my backpack. In the picture, the two strangers are not wearing blue jackets but formal wear: the man in an immaculate suit, the woman in a sequined gown. It doesn’t matter. I know their faces. I remember them exactly.
I call Aunt Austin, hoping she might be able to provide explanation or context or something or anything. The line goes straight to voice mail. She must still be on the plane. I slam down the phone.
Alone in the gloom of the kitchen, I feel so . . . so . . .
I grit my teeth. But it’s too late. I’m in my bed crying. My pillow mushy with tears. Then it’s the next night and I’m in my bed crying. Then it’s the next night and I’m in my bed crying. Night after night after night, it’s the same. My pillow mushy with tears. She’s gone. She can’t be gone. She’s gone. It’s the next night and I’m in my bed crying. She can’t be gone, but she’s gone. Night after night after night, it’s all the same. My pillow mushy with tears.
Until my father comes. He sits on the side of my bed, like she always did, and the mattress bends under his weight. Though it’s dark in my room and my tears blur my eyes, I can tell he’s tired. He doesn’t sleep much either, I know.
He pats my head. His hand is stiff. But as he continues patting, his touch gets smoother. And somehow, after some time, I stop sobbing and sleep. I don’t wake until the morning, and when I do, my father is snoring in the chair by my desk. The sun is dazzling through the window, bright against the white walls, and warm on our faces.
I grit my teeth and I’m alone in the gloom of the kitchen.
We had managed it together, Dad and I, we had rebuilt ourselves a normal, everyday life. We were teammates. We were pals. We were all we had left. But now? Now I don’t know what we are.
The doorbell rings and I move automatically toward the sound. I’ve already unlocked the door before I remember to ask who it is.
“It’s Carlos Cruz,” answers the sexy voice.
I stumble backward. But it’s too late to pretend no one is home, so I fix on a frown and yank open the door. “What are you doing here?”
“Lora Mint, how nice to see you again,” he says. “I was in the neighborhood so I thought I’d stop by to see how your article is coming along.”
“My article?”
“How different generations have different attitudes about memory keys.”
“You know we’re not actually writing that article,” I say.
“I’m just teasing.” Carlos chuckles. He’s dressed casually in jeans and a T-shirt, formfitting jeans and formfitting T-shirt, and if Wendy were here she’d surely be swooning. Stupid Wendy.
“Why are you in the neighborhood?” I ask, not swooning.
“I was at that used bookstore, the one on Pine Street? The one Jeanette—your mom—went to all the time. You know which one I’m talking about?”
“Of course,” I say because I do know that bookstore, even if I did
not know that my mother went there all the time.
“It’s where she bought all her lousy romance novels,” he says.
I glare. What did he know about my mother’s reading habits?
“I’d always tell her a scientist had no business reading such garbage.” His smile doesn’t seem to be directed toward me, but inward, toward some part of his own self. “But Jeanette was a romantic at heart,” he says.
I glare. What did he know about my mother’s heart?
I tell him I have to go. By that I mean he has to go.
But he acts as if I’ve invited him in: Carlos Cruz steps forward and I have to force myself not to step back. I hadn’t before noticed how tall he is. He looms over me now.
Then he pounces so quickly I don’t realize he’s snatched the photo from my hand until I see it in his hand. The photograph of my father and the two strangers. I had forgotten I was still holding it.
“What’s this?” he asks.
“Nothing.” I grab for the picture but he lifts it too high for me to reach. “Give it to me. Give it back!” I shout.
“Sorry, here you go,” he says, and taps the photo down onto my open palm. His apology is undermined by the laughter in his voice.
I am mortified by his amusement; he makes me feel as if I were the one behaving inappropriately, not him. I move to shut the door, crash it right on him, but then Carlos speaks again, seriously this time, and his words stop me.
“You’re so much like your mother,” he says.
My fingers freeze on the brass knob. “I am? How?”
Instead of answering my questions, he asks his own: “That’s your dad in the photo, and the others are from your sketches, right? Who are they?” His tone is easy, friendly, but the gleam in his eyes is hard and sharp as a blade.
I shake my head. I tell him again that I have to go.
“All right, Lora Mint. I’ll see you next time.” He arranges his handsome features into a smile, but that gleam in his eyes does not change.
I close the door.
